I twitched back the curtains and strained to make out the street below. My eyes have never been strong, and in the grey light every outline was indistinct; but even I could not mistake the horse and rider lingering there. The express messenger had been instructed to wait. His mount snorted and tossed its head; its breath showed white in the frigid air. At that moment, I caught the sound of my brother's door bursting open, and the quick light race of his feet along the passage. The reply, then, would be urgent. I must dress and discover what intelligence was come before Frank entirely quitted the house.

I let fall the curtain and broke the thin layer of ice in my ewer. I avoided the image of my own face in the glass; the persistent cold in my head could not improve my looks, and its effects were most determined before breakfast One could only hope that by this evening's party at Captain Foote's the swelling of my nose would have diminished. The view of a lady's complexion by candlelight, in any case, is vastly to be preferred to the glare of day.

“Jane!” My brother's voice came quick and cutting beyond the door. “Are you awake?”

“Of course.” I admitted him immediately. “What news, Frank — good or bad?”

“The magistrate has called the inquest into Chessyre's death for nine o'clock this morning. Tom Seagrave shall be in Southampton within the hour.”

“Oh, no! Poor Louisa!”

“I understand she intends to remove with her children to Southampton, the better to observe her husband's misery. It was she who drafted this letter; I must suppose that Tom did not wish to seek my aid. His wife shows less of injury, and more of sense. I replied that I shall endeavour to secure her accommodation at the Dolphin.”

So Louisa Seagrave had determined to decline Lady Temple ton's offer, and the funeral party in Kent. There was little enough of choice remaining to such a woman, I thought: an interval among relations one could not love, or the prospect of a husband's public disgrace. Either event should involve her in consuming shame; so proud a creature must be prey to every mortification. Dr. Wharton's Comfort should be sought all too often in the coming days.

“I shall leave my card at the Dolphin this morning,” I said thoughtfully. “She must receive every consideration at such a time. It seems hard in us to abandon her to solitude this evening — but I do not like to give up the party at the Footes', even in so persuasive a cause. We go out so little during the winter months — and Mary has looked forward to it so.”

“Devil take Louisa Seagrave!” Frank retorted savagely. “She may sit in contemplation of her disloyalty to Tom, and see whether she finds reason to blame herself for his present fate. Had she told the magistrate that her husband was at home Wednesday night—”

“She should have perjured herself without improving his chances,” I interrupted with equanimity. “Do not make her the proxy for your own unhappy conscience, my dear.”

The door to my brother's bedchamber slammed harshly in reply. From the floor below came the clang of an iron pan and the first heavy odours of bacon fat and boiling coffee; our faithful Jenny should be gone in search of fresh rolls.

Frank's furious voice shouted for hot water — and then like the strain of an uncertain bird, came Mary's placating tone. I pitied them both. Frank must regard himself as in some wise responsible for his friend's debacle. He had told Seagrave that which should make him murderously angry; and he had given Percival Pethering all that was required to clap the man in chains.

Frank would certainly attend the inquest; but I should be spared the discomfort. I had played no part in the body's discovery, I had witnessed nothing that must be disclosed, and I will confess that I felt consuming relief. I had no love for a coroner's panel — they are, in my experience, the product of haste and officiousness, spurred by information that is at best incomplete and, at worst, mendacious. In the present case, I could wager on the unhappy outcome. This should be Tom Seagrave's last day of liberty.

The thump of a boot hurled with vicious force thudded against my bedchamber wall; I heard a bell ring at the other end of the hall. My mother was awake, and demanding the most current news; she should be all agog at the flurry of misfortune among our acquaintance. But I could spare the matter only a part of my mind. Frank might be thrashing in the grip of rage; Louisa Seagrave, bound for the Dolphin; her husband, destined for misery — but I intended to appear at an evening party, and must endeavour to be a credit to my family.

Martha Lloyd — ingenious at the trimming of headdresses — had promised to accompany me to Pearson's, the milliner in the High, for a perusal of exotic feathers. A turban must be requisite for a lady of my advancing years: something dignified and imposing, with a swag of braid and a peacock's plume not un-suited to a gown of Prussian blue sarcenet. I fear that I am quite past the age of appearing all in white, regardless of season; such an attitude may be permitted only among pale consumptives or determined vestals, and I have never aspired to either station.

I turned back into my room and pulled my shift over my head, heedless of the draughts.

MY CONSCIENCE WAS NOT SO BEWITCHED BY THE prospect of dissipation, however, that I ignored the duty of sending my card up to Mrs. Seagrave at the Dolphin when Martha and I passed the inn later this morning. I declined to wait, having bade the footman not to disturb the lady; and trusted I should have the pleasure of receiving her in East Street before very long.

“Where is the inquest to be held?” Martha enquired in a voice better suited to the graveyard.

“At the Vine. It is much less public than this place, and the magistrate appears disposed to discretion, at least.”

“Is your brother in any danger?”

I looked at my friend in some surprise. There was that in her voice that suggested the most acute anxiety; and I thought it hardly the disinterested concern of a fellow-lodger. Some remnant of youthful feeling for Frank must survive in Martha's breast; but it should never do to speak of it now.

“Far less than he should be upon the open seas,” I told her easily. “He is a sensible man; he has nothing to hide; and I trust he shall convince every fellow on the panel of his probity and good sense.”

Martha sighed. “For so much of difficulty to come at such a time! With the removal to Castle Square but a fortnight hence — and Mrs. Frank's baby so near its time — and there is the possibility of a ship, I understand? Our Frank may be posted before his wife's childbed? It seems he has been ashore but a few months, and they would be sending him off again! The Navy is governed by brutes and beasts, Jane!”

“I am sure Mrs. Seagrave must believe so,” I said thoughtfully, and stared up at the inn's bow windows.

MARTHA'S SPIRITS SHOWED GRADUAL IMPROVEMENT AS we made our way along the High — stopping here to finger a sprigged muslin, there to abuse a bonnet of atrocious design. The day was clear and bright, almost unnaturally so for February, but sharply cold. We were obliged to enter far more shops than we had originally intended, merely to keep warm. When at last we had all but stripped our purses bare, I proposed a bit of refreshment — and was turning for a pastry shop I knew of, tucked into Butchers' Row, when two small figures huddled on a neighbouring doorstep caught my eye. They were dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, and shuddering from the cold: both well-grown boys, not unfamiliar, and decidedly ill-clothed against the penetrating wind.

“Charles Seagrave! And Edward!” I cried. “You shall both of you catch your deaths!”

Charles, the elder, sprang upright like a jack-in-the-box, his grey eyes wide with relief. “It's the lady who called upon Mum in Lombard Street,” he informed his brother. “When Uncle Walter was there. I have forgot your name,” he admitted doubtfully, “though you know mine.”